At the beginning of July, I had the opportunity to visit my brother in Mallorca where he studied abroad over the summer. I spent eight days there with him, and it was undoubtedly one of the best weeks of my life. The island was beautiful, fairytale-like even, and together we saw beautiful things and met wonderful people. One experience, however, stands out in my mind more than the rest: the day we found the remnants of the plane my grandfather had died flying there 51 years ago.
Mallorca
I’ll start the beginning of the story with my brother’s words:
“On June 25 1960, my grandfather was involved in a plane crash in the mountains of Mallorca. The only information my family had as to the crash’s location was that it was in the mountains. No specifics were known. My grandfather, alongside one other American pilot, was training German pilots how to fly the new model of the US military’s fighter jets. Each American pilot had a German pilot onboard. The initial crash report said that immense fog had inundated the mountains to the point of little to no visibility at the time the planes were attempting to land. The pilots were unable to see ahead of them, and the two jets proceeded to crash into the mountainside. Wreckage spread for miles. Fast forward 51 years to my study abroad experience in Spain.
With my grandfather’s story in mind, I asked every Majorcan I could if they knew any details about the accident. During my first month in Mallorca, I was only hitting dead ends. A few people remembered hearing the news when they were children but didn’t know the exact location. My teacher Magdalena tried to help me find information and even went out of her way to look for documents at a library containing the history of all the plane crashes in Mallorca’s history. It was another dead end and the section for 1960 was blank. After all my efforts, my teacher’s efforts, and my host padre’s efforts, I still had no promising leads. Magdalena said her best guess was the village of Soller because of the vast mountain ranges there, but this was still just a guess. I was lucky enough to have my older sister visit me for a week in Mallorca at the beginning of July. On her last day, we went on an excursion to Soller with the CIEE group. We still had no idea if this was actually the place where my grandfather died, but we were determined to see it through.”
And the story begins through my eyes, as transcribed from the notebook I wrote it in at the airport on the day I left Mallorca.
Yesterday, Patrick and I left Palma with students from his class at 8 am. We took an old train that moved in slow motion to the town of Soller, about 1 hour away by train.
Soller
It was a beautiful ride through the countryside peppered with groves of lemon trees.
Train Station in Soller
After we arrived, Patrick’s teachers took us on a walking tour of the town and to two museums, one of which had a substantial collection of ceramics by Picasso. After the tour, we took a 20 minute trolley ride that chugs through the streets and homes to the rocky beach- a beautiful piece of earth that’s set serenely against the mountain ranges, the ranges Patrick and I had been told might be where our grandfather’s plane crashed. Patrick and I stayed the afternoon with two other students. The other 8 who were with us headed back to Palma around 2 o’clock. After a few pleasant hours at the beach, we got back on the trolley around 4 and headed to the center of Soller. The next train to Palma didn’t leave until 5:30, so Patrick and I thought we’d be able to stop at the building in the middle of the square for information about the plane crash. His teacher had told us that building would be our best bet. Turns out, in a very Spanish way, the building closed at 2 pm. Downtrodden, we walked to a nearby cafe to regroup.
After sitting outside for a bit, we decided to ask employees at the restaurant if they knew about the accident- a long shot, we thought. Patrick and I went inside and asked the young girl working the bar, Andrea, if she knew the story. In broken Spanish, we explained ‘el accidente de dos aviones.’ She spoke little to no English, but we knew she understood what we were trying to say. That’s when she told us to hold on. She went and got her father, the man who owned the cafe, and we explained the story again to him. Once we finished telling him, his eyes lit up and he walked us out into the street. He pointed to a mountain with two cell phone towers on top and said, “alli.” There. He said the crash site was near those towers. For the first time, we realized how close we were. The problem, he said, was that the crash site was on private property enclosed by large gates that could only be opened with a key. We immediately asked if it was possible to get there. The cafe owner said he knew the owner of the property, and he called him twice for us. No answer.
After three failed attempts to reach him, we sat back down to regroup again. An older man named Juan who had been chain smoking outside had overheard our conversation. He began to tell us that when he was 8-years-old, at a time when Franco was still in power, he went on a field trip with his class to the crash site. He said he even thought he remembered how to get there and that he’d be happy to take us, but his car wouldn’t be able to make it up the mountain. The face of the mountain was steep, and we needed the right car to make it to the top. Slowly, we became disheartened. We were told that it would be a three hour walk even if we were able to take a taxi somewhere close- and a taxi was going to be extremely expensive if it would even take us up the mountain at all.
By that point, it was approaching 6 o’clock. In addition to all the other factors against us, we were now fighting daylight.
In a turn of events that’s nearly impossible to explain, our luck began to change. The young girl who worked at the restaurant, Andrea, told us she might be able to get the keys to Pedro’s land. Andrea was trying desperately to help us. Not only were we complete strangers, but we were also unable to communicate in the same language. That fact alone simply amazes me. After an hour or so of being unsure of our next move, Andrea told us she could take us there, and that we’d go with Juan and her boyfriend, Pedro.
After she got off work, we got into her sister’s car, a small black hatch back, and set out on our journey.
Packin’ Up for the Ride
Sweetly, Andrea turns to us about 20 minutes into the drive and says in English, “This is a safari,” with her thick, Spanish accent. She was exactly right, though, and I wondered how out of all the English words she knew, she somehow knew the meaning of the word ‘safari.’ The trip (both up and down the mountain) was absolutely frightening. We drove for about an hour up the curvy, one-lane mountain road that had no shoulder. About halfway up, Andrea had to get out of the car and throw up. I couldn’t tell if Juan’s driving was erratic, or if the mountain’s curves were really that ruthless. Either way, I knew we’d get there. An hour later we were at the top of the mountain. We could see the town of Soller set against the ocean. Everything below looked miniature. Juan said we were 1,000 km high- so high that clouds were passing through our bodies. We were only an arm’s length from Heaven.
Looking Up at the Towers
Tower, up close
When we arrived at the top, there was a woman standing outside of one of the buildings. She worked for the cell phone company and her job was to oversee the towers. She was holding a puppy and looking over the mountains. An odd sight I will not forget. Juan explained the situation to her and she showed us a piece of the plane near the building she worked in. Then, she pointed us in the direction of more wreckage.
The First Piece
Juan showed us a few small parts of the plane. They were scattered, of course, and sharp as knives. A few minutes later he yelled for us and we walked down a short path. He was standing next to one of the plane’s wings. We couldn’t believe it. We all looked at the wing for a while in silence, and Pedro helped us rip pieces off that we could take back. We took pictures of our findings and got photos with Andrea, Juan, and Pedro (who we later deemed our ‘Spanish Angels.’ ) After a few minutes, Patrick approached Andrea to thank her for the experience we were having. That’s when she told us her grandfather had died before she was born, too. She started to cry, and it was then that I knew she understood what this meant to us. My heart sank low into my chest.
Our Spanish Angels
While looking around the site, we experienced the dense fog that came without warning. I have pictures that show how low the visibility was; the photos look like we’re standing in front of a white wall. It was unbelievable. Maybe it was my grandfather’s way of letting us know he was there with us.
The Wing
We stayed on top of the mountain for a little more than an hour. We took more photos and sat on the rocks and talked. It was amazing to feel such a deep connection with people we’d met only hours before and who hardly spoke English. As dusk settled in, we gathered our things and headed back down the mountain. They drove us to a nearby bus station where we quickly realized the bus had stopped running. It was late, probably 10:30PM by this point, so Andrea called a taxi to come pick us up. We parted from our angels with hugs and kisses, and we all left forever changed.
When Patrick and I got back to Palma, we returned to Carlos’s (his host padre) apartment. Carlos had a friend from Holland staying with him, a peculiar man with a British accent and the body of The Grinch. A nice man, though. When I walked into the living room to meet him, Patrick had just finished summarizing our day’s journey and showing them the precious metal we had come away with. Carlos’s friend looked up at me and said, “I’m glad you found what you came here for.” On so many levels, he was spot on.
After talking with them, we called Mom and I told her the news. She cried, but I knew they were tears of joy. She told us that we had fulfilled a life dream of hers, and she no longer felt the need to go to Mallorca and see the place where she’d lost so much. We had done that for her, and Patrick and I couldn’t have been happier to do it. I’ll never forget her telling us how thankful she was that her father died in a place with such kind, wonderful people. She was right,. He died in one of the most amazing places in the world, and with that, I think she found a bit of peace she’d needed for nearly fifty years.
A View of Soller From the Top
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